


"Consequences"

by Fuzzy_Carpet



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:16:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzy_Carpet/pseuds/Fuzzy_Carpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For every choice, there is an unexpected consequence.</em>  Movie-verse; spoilers for SM3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Consequences"

**Author's Note:**

>  My first (but hopefully not my last) foray into writing Spidey Slash, so forgive my missteps while I learn the ropes.  Chalk this up to one slash-obsessed fangirl who's seen too many hints on display to ever believe it was just a platonic thing between these two. (And seriously, how can anyone resist this pairing when the boys look so damn ~~hot~~ ~~delicious~~ good together on-screen? *sigh*)  I know that Harry's "make it up to me" line has been used many times before, but it's such a key piece of dialog for his character that I had to incorporate it as well.
> 
>  _ **Dedication:** To my dear beta Jen ([](http://simone-42.livejournal.com/profile)[ **simone_42**](http://simone-42.livejournal.com/) ), for so graciously agreeing to make my explorations in another fandom sparkle -- _I can't thank you enough!!_ \-- and to my fangirl-in-arms Chas ([](http://maidenofthesea.livejournal.com/profile)_[ **maidenofthesea**](http://maidenofthesea.livejournal.com/)) for all the cheerleading and moral support along the way.

 

_"Dreams are wishes."   ---   Dr. Jennifer Melfi, "The Sopranos"  
_

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

He soars through the night sky high above the sweltering city, swinging effortlessly from one building to another.  The oppressive heat that radiates off the blacktop on this summer's evening makes the criminals as sluggish as the citizens, and he revels in a rare moment of having time all to himself.  Up here the air is cool and clean, not even the stink of sour garbage piled high on the street-corners below can rise this far up.  He is a pendulum, swinging wide, swooping low, a blur between the shadows, the sound his body makes as it cuts through the atmosphere around him loud in his ears.

This is peace.  This is contentment.

And then he feels it.  That creepy-crawly awareness that lights up his nervous system like a Christmas tree.

_DANGER!_

He is not alone.  Someone else has taken to the skies tonight.

Before he can get his bearings, the newcomer launches a frontal assault, and he barely squeezes past the man in black, catching the glint of silver knives and feeling the radiant heat of engine exhaust in his wake.  He hears the vehicle power down, senses it drop beneath him, and follows the sound, only to see it fire on all cylinders again, coming straight towards him in a perfect vertical upthrust, nearly cutting his webline in half.

There's laughter now, all around him.  He knows the voice.

He tries to outrun his pursuer, slinging web after web and easily covering whole city blocks in one pass.  Mutant or no, he knows he is no match for technology, and it is not long before he is captured from behind in an iron grip.  Scimitar blades on metal gauntlets are scoring his flesh, cutting right through the fabric of his suit as if it were tissue paper.  He screams, fights his assailant off with all his strength, the slashes burning as they are exposed to the air.

More laughter.  The scent of copper fills his nostrils.

And his heart races, adrenaline fueling a potent fear, a fear of death, something he thought he had overcome a long time ago.

The dance continues at breakneck speed amongst the alleys, two acrobats without a net, and he knows that one wrong move could spell disaster.  Further and further downtown they race, swooping into an old part of the neighborhood that the hero knows by heart, and it is here that the prey seeks to out-maneuver the predator, ducking around corners while scrambling helter-skelter across brickwork and gutters, taking to the roof of a familiar tenement and using the penthouse wall there as a shield.  For a moment, he thinks he has the advantage, and he fires thick web balls from his hiding place with the accuracy of a sharpshooter at the Sky Stick's underbelly, gunking up the rotors, watching it bobble off-course, spitting a trail of acrid smoke as the engine grinds to a halt.  The rider dismounts before he crashes, ever-graceful in his single-minded purpose, and hurls two metallic orbs toward either side of his victim before his feet even touch the tar.

Time slows to a crawl, the pumpkin bombs coming so slowly towards him that he can see his life reflected on their surface.  Then, at the last possible minute--

"NO!!"

\--reflex thrusts both arms out to deflect the attack, and the motion leaves him exposed for a split second.  It's all the invitation his assailant needs, and he pounces, pinning the other's arms flat against the wall.  The loose mortar crumbles into dust in the twin explosions that follow, and the man in black presses the whole of his armor-clad body flush against him as if to shield him from the blast, his weight crushing hard enough to suffocate.  Dark hair singed and full of gravel, he grins in triumph, a trickle of blood over one thick eyebrow that runs along the edge of his goggles where they frame his eyes.  He has won.

And since the one who's trapped beneath him cannot budge, he has no choice but to surrender.

"Finally."  The smiling one's breath is thick and strong, chest heaving with exertion, and with one quick move he strips Spider-Man's mask off, nearly cackling with delight at the face revealed underneath.

 _"Tag._ You're it," Harry whispers, breathless.

"Dammit, Harry!  That was _way_ too close!"  Peter shoves him away roughly, relief sagging his shoulders.  "And this is _my_ apartment building, remember?  You want the landlord running up here with the police right behind him?"

Harry is nonplussed by his friend's reaction.  "Relax, Pete. It's Fourth of July weekend.  He'll think it's fireworks going off."

Peter turns to survey the damage, and curses again when he can't pull the door to the stairway open.  "I think you melted the hinges." _Great._ Nothing like giving old man Ditkovitch another excuse for a rent increase.

"Don't blame me.  I don't recall you setting any limits here...other than the 'no killing' rule, that is."  Harry shakes the last of the debris from his hair, still smiling and utterly pleased with himself.  "Can't help it if I'm better at this than you are."

Peter snorts.  "This is the first and last time I let you take your ideas from a Peter Sellers movie."

"Hey now...that man was pure genius.  I'll have you know I worship at the altar of Inspector Clouseau."  Harry affects his most nasal of French accents, asking over and over if he has a _lissanse fer ze minkee._ Peter rewards his impression with pursed lips, trying hard not to let a chuckle escape, and instead makes his way to the far edge of the roof, looking over the side for the electric glow that emanates from his window.

"Got another way inside?"  Harry asks.  "Something that doesn't involve the stairs?"

Peter points.  "There.  My window's open.  We just have to get to the fire escape."  He turns back towards Harry with an outstretched hand.  "You coming?"

Harry picks up his Sky Stick, casually tucking it under one arm.  "I'm all yours."

Peter gathers his friend close, spins a webline and eases them both down to the narrow ledge that surrounds the top floor, and he helps keep Harry's balance steady as they shimmy their way silently across to the metal grate, and safety.  The view is striking from here too.  No moon in sight, only the barest glimmer of pale dawn breaking out over the horizon, dimming the last of the starlight.

They sit together for a while, leaning against the cool slate of the windowsill and watching the sky slowly change color...but soon Peter tires of the company, and searches for the least-offensive way to bid his guest goodnight.  Stretching sore muscles and popping joints, he yawns, and draws his knees up as if to stand.  "I'm going in, Harry.  Think it's best that I lower you the rest of the way down from here."  He wasn't so sure that the sight of millionaire Harry Osborn, striding through the front lobby dressed like a cat burglar on steroids, would escape notice, not even at this ungodly hour.  "The alleyway is narrow, so it should give you decent cover, as long as you don't knock over any garbage cans."

At that, Harry's face is crestfallen.  "You're putting me out with the trash?  I thought you were going to invite me in?"

The idea hadn't occurred to him.  "Why?"

 _"Why?_ Lets see...because you wrecked my board, and it's a long walk home, and I need a shower, and..."  He throws his hands up in frustration.  "C'mon, Pete, will you look at me?  I can't ride the subway dressed like this."

Point taken.  "But where's Bernard?  Can't he pick you up or something?"

"Nope.  Vacation on Martha's Vineyard.  I let him take the car."  He pokes Peter's shoulder hard.  "Hey, you _owe_ me, pal.  Big time.  And don't you forget it."  Another poke, and this time he accidentally hits a bruise.

"Ow!"  Peter groans. _How can I?  You'd never let me._ And Harry wins again.  "Alright, alright...but just for a--"

Without another word Harry slides across Peter's lap and pushes him backwards, toppling both of them right over the sill and through the open window, landing on the mattress that just happens to be stationed on the floor underneath.

"Now this is convenient,"  Harry comments, raising one eyebrow at him as he playfully crawls over Peter's body on all-fours.  "You never fail to surprise me, Pete."

"I--I can't afford an air-conditioner," Peter stammers, rolling out from underneath him so he can get back on his feet.  He won't admit that on the muggiest nights he just lays out on the fire escape, running ice cubes over his bare chest until his fingers go numb and he falls asleep.  It's not that he's embarrassed by it; rather, he is ashamed to admit that on some level, the thought of being seen like that -- half-naked, with no mask to hide behind -- thrills him a bit.

"What?"  He asks, drawn out of his musings by Harry's melancholy expression.  "I get by okay."

"That's what worries me."  Harry takes off his gloves, his boots, kicking them over into the far corner of the crowded room.  "Damn, it's like a sauna in here."  He reaches for the zipper at his throat, pulling it down slow.  "You mind?"  He doesn't wait for Peter's answer, just continues to peel his costume off piece by piece, the sound of velcro closures tearing open echoing in the confines of Peter's little apartment.  Soon he is naked, not as shy as his friend, and lays back against the sheets with a contented sigh, staring up at the peeling paint on the tin ceiling.  "Ahh. Much better."

 _Much better, he says._ Peter tries to look without looking, finding the task nearly impossible with the way Harry is built like the proverbial brick house, and wonders whether he should turn the lights off. _No, definitely not._ It's not easy for him to talk around the huge dry lump now stuck in his throat either, but he tries anyway.  Swallows once, twice, before managing to ask, "so...uh...you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Thirsty?

"No."

"Shower?"

"Maybe later. You go first."

"But you just said...uh..."

"Peter, you're babbling."

"Sorry."

Peter just stands there, unsure of what he should do next, hoping his weary friend will just fall asleep and solve this latest dilemma the easy way.  There is still this nagging sense of "otherness" hovering about Harry.  A hint, a tinge -- not enough to run from, certainly, but more than enough to convince Peter that he is going to be sleeping in his bathtub tonight.  _How gracious you are, Mr. Parker. Hope that faucet doesn't leak again._

"Hey."  Harry is staring up at him, frowning, reaching over with one hand to tug at the red-and-blue spandex where it wrinkles around the crease of one thigh.  He pulls a pinch of the fabric away in his fingers before letting it go with a snap.  "You're overdressed.  Lose the suit, hero."

No such luck.  So he strips down, grimacing a bit at where his blood has dried and glued the material to his skin, ripping the scabs as he takes it off.  He carefully places the shredded remains on a chair, then heads towards the kitchen in his briefs, returning with a bottle of iodine and two towels wet from the sink.  "Here," he offers, handing one to his friend, but when Harry makes a face Peter reminds him, "you're bleeding too, remember?"

"I am?" Harry asks, then absently touches his forehead.  "Oh yeah."  He brings the towel to his face, veiling half of it while favoring Peter with a one-eyed glance.  "Thanks."

Peter mumbles his reply, then sits on the other side of the bed, carefully tending to his own wounds, watching the white terrycloth turn pink in his grip.

Movement dips the mattress to one side then, and a hand comes over his, heavy and determined.  "That's my fault. Let me do it."

Harry's face is over his shoulder, the two nearly cheek to cheek, and he watches himself clean the oozing cuts on Peter's arms and chest.  These injuries seemed to be taking a long time to heal, and Peter can't understand why. _Maybe Harry used some chemical agent on the blades that inhibits cell regeneration?_ Peter closes his eyes to process the thought then jumps a bit, startled at the feel of a sudden jolt of pain across his midsection, and hisses through clenched teeth as the cloth in Harry's hand passes over it.

"Looks bad.  Does it hurt?" Harry asks, though he does not cease his efforts.

"A little," he lied.

 _"Good."_ The word rumbles deep in his chest, a low sound that vibrates across Peter's neck.

He started.  "Why is that good?"

"Means you're still alive.  Means you haven't forgotten what it is to be human."

Peter feels weak all of a sudden, all limp and boneless, and leans his too-heavy head back against Harry's strong shoulder, feeling the muscles there moving under Harry's skin as he works, a rhythm of clenching and rolling that soothes his anxiety.  "What about you?"

Harry pulls the towel away, drops it to the floor before touching Peter's damp skin with his fingertips.  "It doesn't hurt anymore.  Nothing does."

"I'm sorry, Harry."

"Don't be.  I'm not."  One finger carefully traces along the edges of the biggest gash, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.  "It's better this way."

"How can you say that?"  Peter reaches back over his shoulder with one hand, caressing the left side of Harry's face and letting his fingers slide through the short curls at his temple.  The curve of Harry's cheek is smooth under his palm, the ear whole.  Why did that seem...wrong somehow?  "I'm so sorry," he repeated, as if that is the only thing worth saying.

"So you keep telling me.  Do all super-heroes wear their guilt like it's a merit badge?"  Harry stops then, coming back around to kneel on the floor in front of him, right inside the space formed by Peter's outstretched legs.  He holds Peter's gaze with his own, contemplating his next move, and after a long pause he places one hand carefully on Peter's thigh.  "Alright. If you're _so_ sorry, then why don't you make it up to me?"

Peter is almost afraid to ask.  "How?"  The last time they broached the subject, it had inevitably turned towards Spider-Man, and his imagined role in Norman's tragic demise.  _Don't tell Harry,_ Norman begged him, in one final moment of clarity against the madness that was the Green Goblin.  And Peter kept his word, bore that heavy burden on his too-small shoulders, even though it nearly cost them everything they both held dear--

 _Wait._ A brief flash of awareness tries to illuminate the recesses of his memory, and he comes close to a breakthrough.  _The ultimate sacrifice...did I--? Did Harry--?_ A sense of loss is gnawing at him, but try as he might he just can't see the details. _What was it?  Why can't I remember_?  All he could see was his friend's face in front of him, those warm brown eyes that crinkled around the edges when he smiled, just like he was doing now.  A curious smile that was half-silly, half-serious, and it made Peter wonder if he ever did that for anyone else.  "Harry," he began, feeling every inch the awkward geek all over again.  "You know I'd give anything to--"

Harry shushes him then, as if he had read his mind and already knew what he was going to say.  "What's done is done...and I've already forgiven you, whether you believe me or not.  As amazing as you are, you are not God, and I'll never ask you again for something you can't give."  Harry brings their foreheads together, closing his eyes almost reverently, and his words come soft and easy.  "Sometimes I wish that I could turn back the clock, you know?  Back to when it was just you and me and no one else.  Our whole lives ahead of us and the world laying right at our feet.  So much time wasted...being angry, being jealous.  I just--"  A hesitation, a hitch of breath that could almost be a sob...but an Osborn never cries.  "I just miss you so damn much, Pete."

"Me too."  And Peter draws back, placing one heavy hand against the side of Harry's neck -- not to comfort, but to feel.  There's life in this body, blue veins flowing with it.  A heartbeat just under the skin.  This close, it's easy to see the little lines around Harry's mouth, the shadows under his cheekbones, the crippling loneliness hidden behind the thin mask of bravura that privilege had left him. _A mask to hide behind...just like mine._

"Harry..."  His heart swells with a new emotion that's almost unfathomable, and for a moment he can't breathe.  He senses something terrible in the room along with them, a presence that watches with malicious intent, waiting for the chance to shatter this rare moment of peace into a million tiny fragments.  Waiting to take his joy away, like it always did, over and over again.

 _No._ He wasn't going to let that happen.  _Not again...not this time...you can't have him._

"Pete?"

 _You're my friend...you're mine...don't go..._ The last thought slips free.  "Don't go."

And without knowing how, or why, Peter kisses him full on the lips.

He fully expects disgust, horror, retribution, all in equal measure.  But none come.

Harry is not surprised at all.  In fact, he seems eager to respond, and when Peter tries to pull away it is Harry who moves into him, clutching Peter's shoulders and taking one last long taste from his mouth before finally releasing him.

Peter's mouth burns, and it takes a moment for him to realize that the world had just stopped spinning -- and that he was the cause of it.  _What the hell did I just do?_

"Mm."  Harry leans back, eyes half-lidded, and slowly licks his bottom lip.  "Strawberries."

The word snaps Peter out of his daze, and he shies away in anger, blushing furiously.  "Don't.  Don't bring MJ into this.  It has nothing to do with her."

"I'm not, Pete...and you're right.  You love her, you want to marry her someday -- I know the whole story."  His hands are roaming up and down Peter's arms, long warming strokes that find all the secret places where his nerve endings run raw.  "But this, this is different.  It's just us, right?"  He maneuvers himself behind him again so Peter can't look at his face, only feel those skilled hands melting the fresh knots of tension in the muscles of his back.

"I've wanted you to do that for a long time," Harry confesses through puffs of heated breath.

"Oh."  It was furnace-hot, and getting hotter still, and the sweat gleams on Peter's fair skin like a sheen of oil.

"At least now I understand why she calls you Tiger."

A gasp.  "How do you know that?"

"She told me once.  I didn't want to believe her.  But then again, it is the title of her favorite poem."

It was.  Peter knew it by heart.

 

_Tyger, Tyger, burning bright_   
_In the forests of the night,_   
_What immortal hand or eye_   
_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

 

"My only question is, where's your fur?  Hmm. Is it--"  Harry's touch wanders until it finds a new target, much further down, ducking under the elastic of Peter's briefs.  "Here?"  And his hand seizes fire in it's grasp.

Peter doesn't fight the touch, doesn't even flinch; his limbs are far too heavy to move.  He is rooted to the spot, a mere weakling, anchored by the fist encircling his cock and the hairless chest pressed flush against his back.  "Yeah.  I mean...n--no.  Stop...I gotta...um...fix my suit..."  Nothing was making sense anymore, not even his own words.  What kind of game was this?  Where was the rule book?

"Really?"  A low-key chortle mocks him.  "I didn't know you could...sew.  Cute.  Guess Spidey suits don't grow on trees after all."  Harry starts kissing him over and over, chaste little pecks that hit each and every knob of his spine, and the pleasure that ripples down his torso and flows into his groin is so heady a sensation that Peter nearly swoons with it.  "You'd rather stitch a seam or two than play with me?  How sad."

"I gotta close...uh...close up all the...all the...um...rips you made...ah..."  It _was_ sad, in a way.  Sad to know that no one had ever touched him quite like this before, not even MJ -- and he is certain this is what it feels like to be drunk and high all at once.  "Harry, _I can't--"_

"Yes you can."  And Harry's hand begins to move, a slow agonizing drag up and down, and he takes Peter's earlobe between his teeth.  He bites down, then sucks on the bit of flesh hard, and Peter whimpers when he lets it go, those slick lips murmuring their demands right into Peter's ear.  "See?  It's what I want...and I want you to give it to me."

 

_In what distant deeps or skies_   
_Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_   
_On what wings dare he aspire?_   
_What the hand dare seize the fire?_

 

"Stop."  One final plea through the haze of lust, one last chance to save himself from going under.

"You really don't want me to stop, do you?"  Peter can't answer, can only hang his head in shame, but Harry drags him back by the chin, yanking Peter's head roughly upwards with a strength that startles him.  "Look at me, Pete. _Do you?"_

Harry looms large over him, larger than life, the desire now plain in his bottomless black stare...and the truth rises up from their depths, striking Peter hard as a slap, twisting his guts and tearing his heart away from it's moorings.

Wrong or right, there was nothing left to do but dive in, head first.

"No."

 

_And what shoulder, and what art,_   
_Could twist the sinews of thy heart?_   
_And when thy heart began to beat,_   
_What dread hand? and what dread feet?_

"You are so clean, so perfect in every way...but that's just an illusion."  Harry takes up Peter's trembling hand, licking the lifeline from wrist to palm before blowing on it, and the icy-hot caress makes every single hair on his body stand on end.  "You want to be loved, want to be everyone's good little boy...but I'm the only one who knows just how dirty Peter Parker is inside."  He pulls on Peter's arm to keep it still, helping to drive home the seriousness of his intent.  "And you like being dirty, don't you?"

Peter nods, squeezing his eyes shut, not daring to look in those eyes again.  He couldn't bear it if he faltered now.

"Of course you do...of course."  Harry lays him prone on the mattress, a supplicant to his will, and there is no resistance at all to the hands that are taking away his last remaining bit of shame.  "You need this.  You need me, just as much as I need you."

He didn't have to answer that, not really.  But Peter did, just the same.

"I know."

 

_What the hammer? what the chain?_   
_In what furnace was thy brain?_   
_What the anvil? what dread grasp_   
_Dare its deadly terrors clasp?_

 

This is it, he reasons; this is what he wants, yes, this is what he's _always_ wanted, and he doesn't believe he has ever been this hard and throbbing in his entire life.  Who else but Harry could have known?  Who else could have ever given him this?

A flawless vision fills his mind's eye: Harry crouching above him like an animal, bathed in sweat, all shining and glorious, dark eyes and wet lashes and lips so generous and firm...and now they are claiming his own dry mouth, opening it wide, drawing the very breath from him before forcing it back in a rush, living and moving and trailing sloppily over his chin and down his neck, feasting on his chest, his nipples, his stomach, scars gone, pain gone, tongue and teeth going lower and lower still...then hovering, pausing, waiting at the gate...waiting for something...waiting for guidance...waiting for a sign from above that tells him to do it _just do it do it now please Harry please!_

 

_When the stars threw down their spears_   
_And water'd heaven with their tears,_   
_Did he smile his work to see?_   
_Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_

 

And he is embraced by a ravenous hunger that means to eat him alive, and it's as if the whole of his very existence gets narrowed down to this one singular act.  It was the missing piece falling into place.  Suddenly all of this makes perfect sense, and it feels as natural a thing for him to be doing as breathing air, or walking on water, or saying the words _I love you_ out loud.

He doesn't care if Harry pities him, or if he is just being selfish with his own possessive desires.  All Peter knows for certain is the fact that Harry wants him, wants him _that_ way -- right here, right now.

Peter caresses the crown of Harry's head with both hands, combing through his hair with encouraging fingers, and lets the last of his doubts fade away.

 _"I love you."_ The declaration is faint, just a fraction above human hearing, but it's there.  He could ponder the consequences tomorrow.

 

Minutes become hours, and it feels like he is floating, lolling in a warm bath, so delicious a feeling washing over him that he can't help himself, he just can't, and he arches his back and humps his friend's mouth with each downward suck, driving himslf even further down Harry's throat.  His hands are restless again, and they let go of Harry's hair to reach out and claw the sheets instead but they slip through his grip, the fabric now heavy and slick to the touch. Peter turns his head to one side and opens his eyes and discovers to his horror that it's _blood_ , bright as a scarlet blanket, and it's everywhere.  Peter is drenched in blood from the waist down, the viscous fluid clinging to him like a second skin, pooling around him on the bed, dripping on the floor, yet still Harry's head bobs up and down, holding him fast, oblivious.  Confusion turns to shock, but it's not enough to paralyze, and he can't stop his climax from surging forward once he feels a thick finger delve inside him, curling deep and rubbing firm against that secret place, and his orgasm slams into him with the force of a wrecking ball.  He cries out, muscles spasming and joints locking in a pleasure that skirts the edge of pure agony, and Harry suckles him until he comes back down to earth, long after there's nothing left to give and the tremors have faded away.

Harry lifts his head, wiping his mouth with the back of one crimson-soaked hand before turning it over to examine it, and it's then that Peter sees where all the blood is coming from.  Harry has two holes in his chest, so deep that Peter can see straight through his torso to the sunrise coming up at his back.

"Now look what you've made me do--" Harry says, shaking his head, the blood running from his gaping wounds like a waterfall.  His eyes roll back inside their sockets, the whites bulging, and he falls away, right through the open window and down to the pavement below.

And Peter screams.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

 

Peter wakes from his nightmare around four, heart pounding a staccato beat, and slowly drags himself to his feet.  He is running with sweat but shivering, underwear plastered to his sticky skin, still cloudy and a bit dazed from his fever dream.  For all he knows, maybe he does have a fever by now.  July in the city is the worst, and even having the mattress shoved under the open jalousie window proved no remedy for the stifling cloud of smog that hangs over everything.

The taste of bile is crawling up his throat, but thankfully he doesn't rush to vomit this time.  His stomach is empty, having long-since betrayed him, letting nothing he eats stay down for very long.  He can't remember the last time since the funeral that he's eaten a decent meal.

_The funeral..._

Recollection comes on hard, and he steels his emotions before they overwhelm him again.

 _Harry's funeral.  That's right._ A shaky hand swipes at his face.  _Get a grip on yourself._

Mouth dry, he goes to the freezer for ice, tossing the few remaining cubes in a glass and watching them crack and melt as they thaw.  A quick glance back reveals that MJ is still sleeping, curled up on her side, shoulders and legs peeking out from the bed sheet that half-covers her.  He had wanted her to stay in her own apartment tonight; it was too damn hot to be cooped up in his rent-controlled shithole with only a fan for relief.  But she insisted.  She didn't want to be alone, and he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts when they woke him like this.

But he _was_ alone, and he knew it, every time he closed his eyes and saw that the once-handsome face of his best friend had returned to turn his dreams inside-out.

_You've forgiven me, Harry...I know that.  But how can I ever forgive myself?_

Peter wants to cry, badly, but he can't.  Maybe it was the heat...or maybe the well had simply run dry, and there were no more tears left to shed.

_Tell me, Harry.  Tell me how it's going to be.  You were always so good with words...weren't you?_

Of course, there's no answer.  There never will be.  So he pounds his guilt and frustration into the countertop instead.

He returns to the bed and slides in behind Mary Jane, careful so as not to jostle the mattress too much, then pulls the edge of the sheet down to her elbows.  A hand slides around to cup her breast, feeling the springy bump of a nipple poking through the fabric of her bra.  He leans over, lifts her hair up and back, kissing the curve of her throat before nuzzling the nape of her neck.  Her scent is strong here, and he inhales deeply, clutching her breast more firmly, tasting the bitter salt that clings to her skin.

 _Wake up, MJ...please. I need you._ He won't ask out loud.

She sighs then, barely audible, and he watches her move just a little, but this time it's away from him.  Even in sleep, she keeps a careful distance, as if to say _not yet, Peter.  We can't.  I'm sorry._

He takes his hand away.

Turning over, he reaches for where the plastic glass sits, crunching one half of a cube between his teeth, the sound inside his head like the sound of breaking glass, or breaking bones.  He winces, throws an arm across his face, sighs again.

Peter doesn't think he'll ever forget what it felt like to carry Harry's lifeless body in his arms, or the sight of watching strangers dig another deep pit in the cold earth and knowing someone else he loved was condemned to lie in it, for all eternity.  He could only hope that the passing of time might round off the corners some, making the jagged edges of his memory cut less.  It happened before, he knew it would happen again.  Someday.

 _Someday, Pete,_ he could hear Uncle Ben's voice in his head clear as day, _you're gonna look back on your life and remember only the best of times...not the worst._ And he believed him.  The question was, how long would it take?  Months?  Years?  A lifetime?

And was Peter Parker strong enough to wait?

He pictures the red roses they had laid across Harry's coffin -- red for beauty, red for passion, red for blood -- swallows the last of the icy slush, and drifts off again, the sound of distant sirens somewhere a lullaby that keeps the hero's regret at bay, if only for a few hours more.

 

 

 

_~finis~_

 

_(Excerpts are from the poem **"[The Tyger](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172943)"** by William Blake.)_


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